


million gold question

by Dandybear



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Study, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Mild Language, Not Canon Compliant, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 17:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4754897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dandybear/pseuds/Dandybear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>varric asks the citizens of skyhold about romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	million gold question

**Author's Note:**

> I've written lots of DA fanfiction and never posted it because it feels so self-indulgent. Here it is anyway. Inoffensive enough.
> 
> Alistair and Morrigan got accidentally married in DA:O, separated, and were reunited in my game because I like to loudly ignore Bioware canon.

“What is love, you ask, Darling?” Her laugh is musical.

 

Madame De Fer looks down for a moment. She has something akin to a smile playing on her lips, albeit that look of amusement is always there. Her fingers clean invisible dust from the rim of her cup.

 

“Love is a fool’s game. The cause of wars and treaties. Ultimately, a poor idea and I wouldn’t wish is upon my worst enemy. Yet, I’d wish it on the few dear friends I have.”

 

She takes a sip of her tea. You try to remember this look of guarded vulnerability for later.

 

“Hmm, ‘what is love’ such a silly question.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Love is what you get when you mix hormones with three pints of ale.” Bull says.

 

To add emphasis, he downs the jug he’s been nursing with a wide grin.

 

He’s lying, playing the dumb brute card. He sees how you’re not buying it and swirls his finger against the grain of the table.

 

“Love is discouraged and encouraged under the Qun. You must love everyone equally, to love others more… that’s a selfishness we aren’t allowed. No families, no lovers, that way you’ll never know the heartache of losing them.”

 

He leans back and rubs a hand over his overgrown stubble.

 

Krem comes in and slaps a meaty grey shoulder. The Iron Bull drags Krem into his lap, messing up the lad’s hair. Their laughter lights up the inn, filling in the draughty cracks and rat holes.

 

The man who loves too much for the Qun.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The sun is weak, but always makes its way into the courtyard garden. The strange lad, the witch boy, is catching and releasing bugs. His laughter, like his speech, is musical and foreign to the ear.

 

You dust off a bench and look up at the boy’s parents. They’re standing far enough apart to appear barely friendly, but all of their body language points to each other for comfort. You ask them.

 

“What is love?” Alistair’s forehead creases.

 

Morrigan wrinkles her nose.

 

“Love? Such a fickle potion of the mind. Illusion, a lie.” She says.

 

“Love is wonderful. It’s warmth and it wraps all around you.”

 

“Tis the opiate of the masses.”

 

“You give them gifts and snuggle by the fire.” Alistair closes his eyes in a memory.

 

“They’re always following you around, expecting something of you.” Morrigan huffs.

 

“And expect nothing in return except for them to love you back.”

 

“Dreadful, really.”

 

“Just awful.” Alistair says mockingly.

 

Morrigan scowls at him for a second, but Alistair has nudged closer and is taking her into his arms. Her frown is obviously fake, feathers remaining unruffled, she tucks herself under his chin.

 

“And, if you’re really foolish, you’ll end up married to some dogged idiot.”

 

“Or, Maker forbid, having a child with a nasty harpy of a woman.”

 

He kisses the top of her head. Their son brings them a spider. It makes his father jump a foot in the air and his mother’s peals of laughter ring out against stone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Cullen makes a pained face at the question. His thumb brushes the scar on his lip, twisting his mouth.

 

“Love, uh, you should ask someone else about love.”

 

“Come on, there must have been someone.” You say, pushing a known sore spot.

 

“It was hardly love. It was an unhealthy infatuation. A crush. That was manipulated. I--I was living a fantasy. She was a mage and I was a templar, it never would have worked out, and then there were demons and--”

 

He takes a deep breath.

 

“Love is a distraction. I have work to do.”

 

 

* * *

 

  
  


“Did you ask Cullen about love?” Humour colours Leliana’s regularly curt tone.

 

She really doesn’t have to ask. She’s just rubbing it in.

 

“I have had many lovers, men and women. The job isn’t for the picky or the shy.”

 

Her hood falls back, revealing a patch of silver growing at her temple.

 

“You would think that it would make you cold. The variety, the lies, but there is beauty in everyone. I’ll admit, I fell a little in love with each of them. Even the ones I killed.”

 

She’s very up front about this for a spymaster.

 

“It’s the ones who don’t love you back who end up with all the power. The Hero of Ferelden rejected me like she did Cullen, I really have no reason to gloat.” She sighs.

 

Just like that, the mask slips back on.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Loves labours lost. Lest we forget that last lingering look. Eyes, gold, grieving, gone. Why, why can’t you be mine as you wish to be hers? Back bending, head bowed, blunt. Brave, so brave, beloved--”

 

“I asked you a question, Cole, not to dig around my head.” You say.

 

He’s closer to human now, he can sense the nerve he just prodded with that big stick of his.

 

“I am sorry. You are hurting. She is hurting. Why do you keep hurting you both?” He says.

 

“Because, love is complex, Kid.”

 

“Then you answered your own question.”

 

Cole looks at you with his soft mouth and lamp like eyes. You sigh and slam the book closed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Love’s icky. It’s nice though. All sweaty grabbin’ and rosy cheeks.”

 

Sera shifts her weight, “But, there’s also the non-sexy love. The stuff that’s jus’ warm and comfortable. Home. Love’s home, yeah? All those books you write, you do it to remember what your home is.”

 

“Well, not all of them.” You say, scratching your jaw with a quill.

 

This room is a mess, but it suits Sera. There’s probably her own type of order to it, and it’s still one of the prettiest spots to watch the rising sun in Skyhold.

 

“I think wot you’re lookin’ for is the first thing you think of when it comes to love. Like for me it’s bubbling with excitement and covered in freckles and smells like magic stuff.”

 

Dagna, the Arcanist. You’ve seen the two of them drinking. Dagna talking excitedly with her hands, Sera watching, chin perched on a fist and gooey look in her eyes.

 

“I didn’t think you were too fond of magic, or dwarves for that matter.”

 

“I’m fond of good people, what they do and what they are doesn’t ‘ave a lot to do with it. Eugh, so long as they aren’t an Orlesian with a stick up their arse.”

 

That makes you both laugh.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t hear through the hammering of metal and hissing of steam. He leads you off to the edge, right below that waterfall and drinks deeply from a cup of water.

 

“I said, ‘what is love’?”

 

White lashes pat against his cheeks, Andraste’s ass, the guy has long hair everywhere.

 

He licks full lips, “Why are you asking me this?”

 

“I’m asking everyone. I thought it would be an interesting anecdote for my new book.”

 

“Ah, good man. Love is… well, it’s everywhere. It’s what the Maker leaves to us. It’s in the food we eat and the water we drink. It sounds like birdsong and children’s laughter and that little huff that-- Love is an energy. It keeps us moving, separates us from the beasts.”

 

“You sound kinda like you’re describing magic there, Boss.”

 

“It’s a certain form of magic too.”

 

“A diplomatic answer from a diplomatic man.”

 

“To survive, as love has, we must imitate its versatility.”

 

He stands, dusting off his knees. His long fingers brush against his horns, a nervous gesture.

 

“I can be many different things to many different people, because that is who they need in their lives.” Adaar says after a moment.

 

“But which face is the real one?”

 

“Now, that is a good question.”

 

His smile would look earnest and charming to others, but you see it as a baring of teeth, a warning. You gather your things. There’s still a lot of speculation about Adaar, why he’s so closed off, as far you know, few have managed to scratch the surface. At least you know how to ask next.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Love is unyielding. It’s power, strength, the only thing worth fighting for.” Each word is punctuated by the thrust of a wooden sword.

 

“Impassioned words, Seeker. I knew you were a romantic, but the only thing worth fighting for? What about The Chantry?”

 

“The Chantry should be founded on the basis of love. The love between us, The Maker, and Andraste. It’s when we focus on material gains or petty power struggles that we lose sight of that which matters.”

 

“You know the love between Andraste and The Maker that got her killed, right?” You avoid the limb of a dummy she’s just accidentally dismembered.

 

She takes it in stride, wiping off her face on a towel.

 

“That may be, but it’s also why we feel her struggle so deeply. When I was a girl, I longed for a cause that I knew was true and a man I could give myself to completely.”

 

Her thumb strokes a path down her fingers until it hits a golden band, absently, she presses the ring to her lips.

 

“What’s the Inquisitor like when he’s with you?”

 

Cassandra flinches at the question. She looks careful, deliberating over her words and excited to be asked about one of her favourite topics.

 

“He is quiet, and thoughtful, and very charming--funny and romantic. He brings me gifts, flowers mostly. Why?”

 

“I think we’re all a little curious of his true nature. He shifts so easily between roles. I thought you’d be privy to the man behind the mask.”

 

She chuckles, pausing to lean on her sword.

 

“Stefan isn’t nearly as mysterious as he appears. That… how did you put it… ‘aura of intrigue’ is just a shield. He likes to garden and craft, any air of mystery is just him wanting to be left alone.”

 

“The Inquisitor’s secret: introversion. I like it. Now, one more question. When did you realise you were in love with him?”

 

Her cheeks colour that brilliant mixture of red and olive. If you could paint, you’d try to recreate it. She really is quite lovely, despite her abrasive… well everything.

 

“I have had a total of two lovers in my life, so I cannot attest to being any great romantic. All I can say is that I think of him every day we’re together and even more when we’re apart. I want to tell him my thoughts and fears and hear his in return. He’s my closest confidante and best friend. I love him because I simply could not.”

 

She’s twisting her glove and staring at you so fiercely.

 

“Thank you, Seeker, that will be all. Go back to killing the straw men.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I feel like love and loyalty should go hand in hand, but that is so rarely the case.” Dorian says.

 

He’s leaning against the table, looking like he’s posing for a painting as always.

 

“Love of country, love of children, love of family. It’s so easy to say you’re loyal, but ultimately love of self trumps all.”

 

“You’d know all about that, Dazzler.”

 

“I’m proud of it. At least I’m honest. It’s always the type who claims loyalty to their country who betrays it, Ferelden’s Loghain springs to mind. Or the man shouting from the rooftops that he is loyal to his family that has a million affairs. I’ve met quite a few.”

 

“So, the selfless are those who claim to be selfish?”

 

“Such has been my experience.” Dorian crosses his legs.

 

“Is that why you ended things with Bull?”

 

That makes him bristle, “Believe it or not, Varric, we ended things amicably. The ending of a relationship isn’t a failure if both parties come out of it better than they were.”

 

He dusts himself off, settling his ruffled feathers before fixing you with a hard stare.

 

“But, enough about me. From what I’ve heard, you’ve been asking everyone this question, Varric. Why? Are you seeking out answers for polling reasons? Book research? Or does this perhaps have to do with Bianca?”

 

His eyes are fixed on you and you do not shift nervously, though your hands twitch to do so. The lie is ready on your tongue.

 

“I thought it’d be a great opening to my next romance novel. All these different characters and their differing opinions on what love is. Then we get to the protagonists, best friends for years who haven’t realised that they’re madly head over heels for each other.”

 

“Sounds like absolute garbage. I’m sure Cassandra will love it.”

 

You laugh, “Everyone’s a critic.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I don’t have time for this, Varric. I have a meeting with the Nevarran Ambassador and I’m trying to find a diplomatic way to tell him that we want Marcus dead before we’ll deal.”

 

Josephine adjusts herself in her chair, eyes fixed on the paper in front of her.

 

“No poetic or romantic insights on love, Ruffles? I always took you for the type.”

 

“Love doesn’t need a definition, Varric. It’s like the sun, it warms, it brightens, it’s always there even if you can’t see it. Now, shoo.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

That’s another name crossed off the list. You don’t really feel like bothering with Solas or Blackwall. You’re sure Blackwall will get a pained expression and hide behind some wood carvings until you leave. Solas will probably go off on a tangent about the Fade that will end with you finally learning about the time he fucked a spirit.

You wake up and roll over to a side of the bed that’s always been empty, save for the few times Bianca stayed the night, or when Hawke would be too drunk to make the long stagger home from the Hanged Man. Black hair undone and sprawled out over the pillow, her thin lips parted in a snore, dark lashes hiding yellow eyes, skin even darker in the shadows of his curtains. She’s a sleep cuddler, the type who unconsciously wraps herself around you.

 

Not that she hasn’t consciously wrapped around you.

 

You’ve got ink staining your fingertips and whiskers. All these answers have just made hopelessly clear what you’ve been trying to avoid.

 

You rub an inky hand over your face again.

 

“Shit.” You say.

 

You need a pint of ale if you’re going to write this out.

 

_“Dear Hawke,”_

 

You scratch that out and crumple up the paper. Looking up, you see Alistair has migrated into the pub just to sit across from you looking very much like a large dog.

 

“Need help with something, Pointy?”

 

“Pointy? Oh, right, the ears.” He touches the tips self consciously.

 

“Yeah, I mean, no offense, but you blonde, ruggedly handsome Ferelden men all look the same to me. I need some kind of point of differentiating you.”

 

“Tell me about it. The Inquisitor once saw me and Cullen talking, he looked like he was going to cry trying to figure out which one to give a report to.” Alistair says.

 

You like Alistair better because Curly would just sputter indignantly and say _‘We do not all look the same!’_.

 

He’s a calm man, especially for one left in the Fade. You suppose there’s an assurance when one’s wife and mother are powerful mages willing and capable of tearing a hole in reality to drag you back home. You roll your lips and just hold back your gratitude that he was left behind instead of Hawke. You have no doubt that Merrill and Bethany would do the same for Marian, but they didn’t have the ready resources and access to the Fade.

 

Her being left there for so long. It’s unbearable to think of. But, knowing Marian, you’d find her making witty remarks at demons with a lopsided grin. She’d ask what took you so long and you’d try and fire something back and just end up holding her.

 

“Lost in thought? I’ll let you be.” Alistair says.

 

“It’s funny, when it doesn’t matter then I can write thousands of words, easily. But, now something this important has me tongue tied.”

 

He puts a heavy hand on your shoulder, “Send it anyway, it’s more honest. If she loves you she might even find it endearing.”

 

“Am I really taking advice from a banished prince who gets called an idiot by the woman he shares a bed with?”

 

“I realised a long time ago that ‘Idiot’ is Morrigan speak for ‘Beloved’. And how many other married men are lining up to give you advice.”

 

“Point taken, Pointy. Thanks for the tip.”

 

_“Marian,_

_I’ve been thinking. You know me, always thinking anyway. Thinking leads to talking which leads to writing. That’s why you’re getting a letter._

_Where to start? Bianca visited shortly after you left. The rest of Skyhold was giving her--and me-- the stink eye. I figured out it was because they assumed she was the mistress in my relationship with you. I tried correcting them, but…._

_Well, Marian, they’re not wrong. I’m the wrong one here. You were right. I’m sorry. I’ve been an ass for at least ten years, and I’ll probably still be an ass after you’ve got this letter._

_You’re my best friend, the first person I think to tell when I have a good thought or joke. I miss telling you every story idea that pops into my head and I miss the way you scratch my jaw when you really want to kiss me._

_I hope you’re kicking ass at Weisshaupt. I went and saved a great bear and fought and ice dragon with the Inquisitor. I thought of how you and Aveline would have handled things. You whining about not being able to transform into an ice dragon… Aveline riding a giant bear into battle. I’ll be sure to add it into my next book._

_I love you. I’ll be visiting soon, and I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me._

_Yours,_

_Varric Tethras”_

 

 


End file.
